For the fourth volume of my increasingly inappropriate writing advice columns i will tell you, forget all the other volumes. There it is. End Blog Post. Drop Mic.
Fact is, i don’t have a clue. Above you will see an example of how little i know. Yeah. That’s mine. Pretty isn’t it? Colorful. Just look at all that gorgeous red. Look at the sad and isolated patches of black, hanging out and thinking ‘oh dear sweet jesus. Did you see what he just did to us? We’re safe!’ Those poor remaining words. You can almost hear them heaving in fear, crying, their little beady eyes whipping back and forth looking for the incoming red pen that has mangled so many of their peers.
Nah. It’s alright. You’re safe.
The point i’m trying to make is all of this is just a poisonous stew. All of the tips and tricks i wrote about before… there’s no rhyme or reason for it. Not really. There’s no pattern of ‘do this and then do that’. There is, when i am writing, a scorched earth policy. It sucks until it doesn’t anymore and i will swing down like zeus on a dragon and burn the life out of all the words until the paragraphs and sentences gleam a little bit. Burn away the garbage until the bits of gold are all that’s left behind.
The first draft of everything is shit.
Use the shit to fuel the furnaces of the second.
I’m working on The Stonemaiden’s Cup now. It’s the first in a new series and it’s a freaking monster. The damned thing might kill me. No really. It might. It’s heavy enough, by god, to lay enemies low with one swift stroke. But i can’t stop and it must be done so whatever ‘rules’ or guidelines i had are out the window. I’m adding stuff now. I’m moving sentences around, the other day… seriously… i restructured the entire thing. ALL OF IT. I moved chapters around. Hell… i JUST added a chapter. And in between all of that there’s the slash and burn, finding the gold, razing the village with fire and wrath.
Maybe i watched one too many episodes of Vikings.
The thing is… and this is really the thing… you have to put those sentences in order and you have to make that little bastard sing for his supper if he doesn’t want to end up on the pile of the ember colored ink, smoldering with his baked brethren. If the sentence doesn’t sing and doesn’t make the paragraph sing, kill it with fire.
Every paragraph has a purpose. That should be a Monty Python song, like ‘Every Sperm is Sacred’. But it’s not sacred. If a paragraph doesn’t have a purpose – kill it. If it sounds pretty like a little fresh songbird… well… you might be able to save it, but only if you can make it work. All that rot about ‘Kill your darlings’ well… that’s more shit advice really. It’s the pretty, quaint, neato, ‘genius’ thing writers say to classes of students to make themselves sound bespectacled and brilliant but it means nothing. Save your darlings if they are worth saving. But if you’re saving them at the expense of your story, your plot, your characters, if they don’t help the survival of the whole… let em burn.
No darling ever really dies. They rise like gold laden zombies and as a brain devouring horde of rich people they shamble forth and create your work. So don’t worry about them. They’ll rise again.
Alright. Now i’m just rambling so screw it. Get to work and light a match. You have fires to start.